Rain Dance
by Altariel
Summary: Faramir takes stock.


**Rain Dance**

 _The Steward's House, Minas Tirith, the start of May 3019_

With the King crowned and the realm restored, I obeyed my lord's instruction to go home for a while to rest and take stock. Leaving the White Tower, I crossed the Court of the Fountain, and, looking out across the Pelennor, stood for a while to marvel. Not yet eight weeks had passed since my City had been on her knees, her gates breached, her spirit broken, her lord burned. Now all was changed. Passing the old bare tree, I pressed my hand against my chest, and bowed, and with all my heart I thanked the Valar that by their grace I had lived to see the dawn of this new Age.

Inside, the house was already different. Windows stood open, and the wind carried through the rooms a fresh scent, where much had lain still far too long. In what had been my father's study, I stood with my hands resting lightly upon the desk and I looked around, and thought, _I am the master here_.

Already I had gone through much that had been his, some sent to the city archives, more to storage, and some possessions kept, for they belonged to the House more than to any one of us. A duty that falls upon us all in time, perhaps, to sift through the flotsam of a lost life, and consider what must be preserved and what forsaken. My brother's possessions my father had cleared swiftly on news of his death. At the time I had regretted this, but I thought now that perhaps it was a blessing not to have inherited the task. My work today was elsewhere. In a room untouched, perhaps, since she had left us, I opened a door to the past long sealed, and greeted the shade of my mother.

This had been her private chamber. The walls were pale blue, with a high window that looked across the garden. I opened this, to let in the air, and stood for a while, watching the trees dance in the breeze. A memory drifted past me, so faint and distant that I believed it not so much truth as wish – of myself, walking there with her, holding hands. And I fancied perhaps that I heard her voice, and she was singing.

 _She stepped away from me  
_ _And she moved through the fair  
_ _And fondly I watched her  
_ _Move here and move there  
_ _And she went her way homeward  
_ _With one star awake  
_ _As the swans in the evening  
_ _Move over the lake._

I looked around the room. In truth, I was surprised to see so much of her remained, and I did wonder then whether my father had not found himself equal to this task. In the closet there were dresses, and I found myself at a loss to know what to do with them. Would my lady want them? My cousin? I did not know and could not guess. I closed the door, and understood my father better.

Against one wall stood a wooden chest, and I knelt before this and opened it. There was a faint wave of scent and I breathed deeply. I had known her for such a little time, I thought; she was more phantom than living woman. And yet she was an ever-present ache; a loss that pervaded my whole life, leaving me forever exiled from that garden. Slowly, I began to explore what she had left behind. I found books, and in the front her name, in her own hand. Poetry, songs, children's tales. I found music, for the harp – she sang, I knew that, but had not known she played. I found tapestries, her work, intricate designs of many colours, and one, unfinished, in silver and black. I found combs and brushes and clasps for long hair, and a case containing a silver chain and pendant, a blue gem set within a silver swan. I put this aside for my lady. And at the bottom of the chest, I found a little wooden box.

I opened it slowly. Perhaps I sensed what lay within. Here I found sketches, of two boys, as the short years swiftly passed. There were children's drawings and first letters; small stones and seashells gathered by small hands; clippings of soft dark hair. I had not known this house contained such treasure. I lifted out these pieces, one by one, and handled them, and laid them side by side upon the floor. And as I performed this task, it seemed as if some part of me that had been submerged came slowly to the surface, as if the simple act of holding these things that she had loved was enough to restore me to myself. Here she had gathered us, my brother and I, for safekeeping, and not all had been lost. I sat for a while amongst these gifts, and then carefully I put them away, and closed the box, and kissed it.

I lay back on the floor and shut my eyes. I pressed the palms of my hands against the wood. Solid, I thought; this house would not now crumble. I listened to the quiet. Here was the peace that I had longed for my whole life; costly, yes, and thus all the more prized. For a while I danced on the edge of blessed sleep, but then I heard a voice in the garden, singing.

 _My young love said to me:  
_ _"My mother won't mind  
_ _And my father won't slight you  
_ _For your lack of kind".  
_ _Then she stepped away from me  
_ _And this she did say:  
_ _"It will not be long, love,  
_ _Till our wedding day."_

I opened my eyes. I rose, and went to the window. These songs, I marvelled, do they travel on the wind? Do the birds carry them, from one land to another, so that one woman may sing them in the past and another to the years that are to come? Looking out, I saw Éowyn, standing tall and straight like a silver birch in the very heart of the garden. The wind, picking up, sent her gold hair streaming, and she began to dance – slowly, slowly, circling around. Rain came suddenly, a soft spring shower, and my lady raised her face and arms in greeting. Joyfully, she laughed. She seemed the very image of Yavanna, the power that turns all life towards renewal, and as she moved, she sang:

 _"It will not be long, love,  
_ _Till our wedding day."_

Here now was the growing smell, green and vital. I breathed, deeply. It was time to take my leave. I moved quickly beyond the room, but stopped for a moment in the corridor to set my hand, like a seal, upon the door. Not all was lost, and there were gifts uncounted yet to come. Turning, I went to greet my love in the rain.

* * *

Written for the Teitho 'Songs' challenge, where it took first place. The song is of course the traditional Irish song _She Moved Through the Fair_. Would they know it in both Belfalas and Rohan? Why not.

For GJM, 1915-1984.

 _Altariel, 30_ _th_ _July 2018_


End file.
